.
the ocean
.
the dawn
.
surrounding
.

on thorn of bramble
an effervescent dewdrop
is holding the sun

western ocean fog
rolling over the city
pacific buildings

moving in
weeds in the garden
dead yellow

cold street lamp circle
a cone holding nothing

kids like monks
plates clasped to their chests
watching steam rise

in one night
with a bottle of wine
and grip of smoke
we realized nothing
made people into plants
and watched the dogs play

touching
but not really feeling
the water
on the grass

was it the same thing?
the wine, smoke
plants and people
the dogs
the play

i can see the reflection in his eyes
making my motions
was the reflection in mine really
him?

truth pours
in great gushes
like silk in the wind
from the wine bottle
when we knocked it over
with our blind heels
to watch the stars

harvest moon
hidden in the black oaks
on the hill crest
over the ridge-
pieces of a full moon
through the black oaks
reap that we may sow
that we may reap
that we may sow
over and around
the harvest moon comes again
watching us in deep equinox slumber
light to tend our dreamed beds

No flowers
in the December
cement cracks,
but still the multicolored tatters
of plastic reflect the sun.

No usual haunts
in the city
of my grandfather.
Alone with so
many faces
of those I will
likely never know.

Was our destination waiting for us?

Or did we make it once we arrived?

the whites of her eyes weren't bright last night
more dyed, like a smoker's tooth brush
chyme coming up, cheap *****, 7-up
after we felt lush, trying not to move much
so as not to wake her
so as not to shake her from a slumber
just to, in a haze, lumber encumbered
towards her days numbered
so i'll just lie there until her sky eyes open
i'll lie there until her sky eyes open
lie there until her sky eyes open
until her sky eyes open

cracking wise
wide open

Do you ever get that feeling
like great waves of grey?
clouds so close
you can taste them;
and the green fire
burning across the hillside,
slowly growing,
stoic, knowing,
is flowing up towards the
sun.
the rain is just now falling,
softly
down.
clouds all around,
and that feeling
stealing your breath
is the only thing left
of the beast with cleft chest,
bare breast,
and the best broken bones.
No guests,
all alone.
No sense in dusting the throne.
Blood rusting on the fence;
you're home.

On the ferris wheel we steal a kiss,
careless zeal, no bits amiss,
slip into this, mind and timelessness,
twist wrist, spit lip like starshine, crisp.

Down below the kids get lit,
ripped,
hair wind flipped out,
broke mouths sip doubt,
shout fire-light, ice pout,
grown out the hometown,
grown loud, a fun crowd,
one's got the know how,
the others got the low down,
one shot the sheriff,
then the others hit the ground.

When he shot the sheriff
he kneeled,
we saw it from the ferris wheel.

your the one
with the missing smile
who mistakes my honest love
for guile
and i know it may
take a while
for your mind to change

you'll always be on a horizon

i'm the one
with empty eyes
who is always looking toward
the skys
all i can do is
apologise
for the things i don't want

you'll always be on a horizon

Death is the celebrity we all know
(just not personally).

I'm scared of this world because people can find clarity in delusions
I'm in love with this world because people can find happiness in excuses
In just a grain engrained
In their intestinal brains
I'm scared of people because emotions are illogical
I'm in love with people for the same reason
I'm scared of myself because this is human
I'm in love with myself

I
seem to be sinking.
Miss,
excuse me, but haven't we met before?
The
look you gave that old man, the
way
it was like the light I see, through water as I'm sinking.
You
don't remember? here take my hand,
read
these valleys. Don't you remember the streams
between?
Pardon me, it's not catharsis, it's only
the
pressure pushing it out, making
lines
where there were once spheres.

What came first, the subject or the predicate?
"I am."
The shortest sentence.
Why can't I just forget it yet?

Both It and I meant for this
(the that which made this way).
Both It and I sent this self to blossoms and decay.

Relentless,
the fray.

Love
Lips
Skies
Why?s
Seas
Now
Trees
Tao

these are we
blessed be

I've been working
very hard
on expanding my vocabulary
beyond "I'm sorry."
"I don't know."
and the usual gib-gab
that us gibs often gab,
but the more I think about it
the more I find resolve
in the conclusion that
what really needs to be said
is beyond words,
and any representation
of me
on any medium
is only a fragment.

And there,
they're right.
I know why I hate the fact that
I love to look at mirrors.
Keeping my shards to myself.
My fragmented sentences,
I often forget,
can still light fires
in places
other
than here.

Because there exists,
and I'm sorry.

I meditate
to alleviate
my fear of starting gates
and arriving late;
but this way's not working.

My lurking ailments
are assailants sent
from me to me
to see the pail's spent
much time
under leaky eyes
and roofs through
blurred lines in blue skies.

My demons fly higher than I.

Truths are lies alive in the
ears of who's hearing them,
and leaders are the feeders
of the power that's fearing them.

I'm searing them tearing gems
with uncertain vapors,
burning buds put in papers.
Rainy red retinas
want to undrape her
so I scream just to shake her
from myself
before I break her
from her shelf,
with rainy retinas red,
of self certain days.

I'm yearning for shades to start churning,
red back to blue,
you'll stop burning.
I want you
to stop earning
my dreary dream't gifts.

I'm still learning.

Looping, arching
solar storm bridges,
out into dark,
from one pole to another,
of the same sun stuff.

Magnetic pressure builds to
giving.
Another place,
pressure-less,
accepting, empty hands, bowls
to be filled
& filled until
breaking & letting go
to the
ground
into outer space, sharing.

A circle in a circle.
Concentric stage,
matter/motion actor
playing both parts.

The nature of a doorway
is both open and shut.
Wait not for the mending of time
'for tending your bruises and cuts.

Ask the moon if she prefers
fullness over cast in shadow.
Her reply, "A darkened sky
makes oceans no more shallow."

squinting at the Sun,
rainbows in my eyelash

Ignight matches, ember flashes;
skatter ashes, synapse crashes.
shattered egos, falling seagulls;
escaped evils, louring reels.
when the past begins ignition,
animate my superstitions,
demonstrate simple submission.
after my final decision,
with unbelievable percision.
stay the course, on a mission;
the death of all know memory;
stems the voice to reach my ear;
the foolishness of men I see;
neon fantacy without fear.
the audacity of the dead blooming,
the understanding in darkness looming,
the screaming, flying, fading, fuming,
tendency to hate consuming.
spreading spores to distant shores,
apple cores and opened doors.
fleeing, fighting, never lying,
down apon this ancient ground;
**** this town, it's over now;
**** this town, let's end it now.
In the turn of pages and sheets,
the end is something that's bound to repeat.

In summation
I am a tribute.
A sacrifice to the all-beast.
the great vibrational being
with a fractal face,
and fingers,
and feet.
with a frayed tongue
it eats me;
completely.

We are examples
of the persistence
of existence.
All of us flickering like fire,
than rising like smoke,
higher and higher,
breath from the stoke.

No joke, but still funny.
Like bees making honey.
I like my yolks runny,
liquid and lovely,
like motions in space.

It's no race to beat
the all-beast,
feasting its face with its own fingers.
nothing left to waste,
nothing left to linger.

We all have a place,
As the song and the singer.
Haven't you heard?
YOU are the word!

All that you have
give it away
all that you know
thrown into the flay
all that you've been
has been today
all of your silence
has something to say
give it away

We are gifts
to the all-beast
and all of our love,
and all our attention,
is its.
in summation,
it's all we truly have to give.
In summation,
it's all we are.

Yes.
I have come here to learn.
Your grace is the prism thru which
I have witnessed the broken light
of beauty.

Allow me to look
that I may learn
to reflect the spectrum unedited
and act always from a place of compassion.

Though the names of deities
shall echo through echelons eternal
the nature of their faces
will be never
on our
tongues.

And yet…

Even on the tip I forget.

someday
i'll translate you
into music

embodied in a note,
a phrase,
a lyric, a voice
my voice.

I will slip you into
the ears of those who still listen.
I will keep you
on the tip of my tongue,
so that you'll always have somewhere to dance.

stay just a while longer.
let me be your witness,
so that i may know you.
let me be your arbiter,
so that i may push you,
if ever so gently,
toward where your feet won't carry you.

someday i'll translate you into music

Flame unburning,
ever bright,
turn the darkness
into light!

Eyes uncovered,
sacred sight,
turn the day time
into night.

How can you not be thankful for your mother and father?
How can you not be grateful for the Earth beneath your feet?
The Sky above your spine?
With our whole lives we try to say thank you,
though sometimes it seems this endless succession
of gifts slips by too soon;
so we backtrack
and follow our steps left from where we were
in an attempt to find source,
the ultimate gift-giver,
selfless in every extent,
because we know that if we may say thank you
to That compassion
then all will be released;
all will be welcomed.

Here is the difficulty;
for in our usual acceptance of gifts
we return in kind,
but in a blessing so subtle
there is no hand to shake,
no body to embrace,
and so we light incense,
we make sacrifices and say,
“look what I don’t have,
look what is once again belonging to that great unspeakable something!”

Then the realization
that there truly is no difficulty.
That the great gift giver
is no idol to be worshipped,
but an example to be followed.

It's raining outside
and
These beautiful things
shining through my tears
will feel the drops
but never know my fears
how could they if I don't?

Rain drops
Falling from the trees
into the sky
and you never ask why
ignore the dots in the sky
they're not there

Rain  falls
on tattooed tough guys
littering sidewalks with spit
say they're trying to quit
cigs for the sixth time
and he's tired of lie
tied together to hide
his head when he cries
from better eyes

It's raining outside
Slight stirrings before sunrise
split seconds of conscientiousness
before slipping into a sea of dreams
I always have the most vivid dreams
while the sun is rising

It's raining outside
but not in here
not in my head
not in my bed

as if I am to make a small space smaller
to bring you all to gather
there blankly in a field
here shall we look at gems or metals
or plants or animals and judge their worth
and find only
this
this
an eternal meaning never meant for hands
for books
even in writing this is  escaping me
an effervescent truth makes me laugh and
rip the pages bubbling
out of my hands
a fumbling
grasp
of gasps
and the entirety
that I may have made
is already the river

there's a jazz bone in my body
it moves with muscles taught to loose
and pull back on reaction
fueld by juice and passion
cooled and smoothd to prove
that what lasts is
momentary
and on the
spot

caught
in
passivity is not
to be mistaken for
sloth

i'll see you at three
the deal's not off

I got a jazz bone
I gotta pick whichyou
I don't know which one
don't know how to choose
If love's a gun
and happiness blue
than *** is a number
and 2 is a hue...

It's just a thought,
but maybe this really is
as it seems.

Perhaps
the mountains
are truly mountains,
and the rivers
rivers.
A symphony of liquid,
notes called drops,
but you hear only one song.

It's possible
that light
is color,
because a broken thing
is still
itself.

All of the loose ends
might meet by chance
in a white room
when they find themselves
searching
for the beginning
again,
but
it's just
a thought.

there's something about
the people you don't know
that makes you laugh

the old men escorts
babble while we whisper
they make you laugh

cold fingered hipsters
who talk **** cause they can
have made you laugh

"what are you doing?"
"just playing" i would say
and then you'd laugh

bleary blue eyed boys
good intentions twisted
have made you laugh

and yes even I
still blue eyed and bleary
will make you laugh

there's something about
the people you don't know
that makes you cry

the old men escorts
babble while we whisper
they make you cry

cold fingered hipsters
who talk **** cause they can
have made you cry

"what are you doing?"
"just playing" i would say
and then you'd cry

bleary blue eyed boys
good intentions twisted
have made you cry

and yes even I
still blue eyed and bleary
will make you cry

you get mad at me often
because we don't speak the same language
or because as much as i listen to your
boy-hood fantasies
i still only here the voice of someone
scared
to just be a woman.
It's difficult for someone
who just wants to be a man.

you call me a hypocrite.
walking around with a mirror for a face
while I scream at everything else for having
the same face
or closed-mouth laugh
or the tongue in between her teeth.

you get mad at me because
i tell you to be direct
but i can't never seem to tell you what i mean
by "I love you"
or "I don't know".

As I breathe
the music on my shoulder is  kicking it's legs
and sighing
with bells on its shoes
and freezing cold finger tips

As I listen
the breathe in my head is speaking
in the lowest tones
of the brightest colors
and I keep reminding myself for some reason
that they're just words.

aren't they?

I don't know.

I love you.

The night is emboldened,
swinging recklessly between the lighted intervals.

In the day,
when all human movement
is set to continue,
the rapid spinning of
Earth
is lost to our needs.

When the stars show
we go dancing
with the purpose of loving,
so fiercely,
the coming rest.

We make our nests of
exertion
woven into
footfall patterns
and
when we wake
it is unmade
and we set off
collecting distance in our hearts
to make it again.

kiss me please.
kiss me hard.
let it leave
a mark, a scar.
let it burn and be a star.
kiss me please
and leave me charred.

I'm not so far away
as to miss it when you say
the way you feel.
i'll listen
and i'll pray
that it's real,
and steal a kiss
so that we may pay
only attention
to the tension between
our blue pools
atop mountains,
bringing them both
to the valley
to meet in the middle
and make up the sea.

kiss me.

Why is it sad
that you don't have a purpose?
What is the true
definition of worthless?

Stop looking
start seeing
Stop doing
start being
Stop searching
start finding
what use is rewinding?

All I ask
is for you to make sure
that you know what you know

Should I give more attention?
a tree than a stone?
because one is softer?
or has longer been 'lone?

We’re home.

Satori is beyond words,
yet any words with which one may use to describe it are correct;

explain this.

with death and ***
I am obsessed

the lift of chest
the wait for rest,
the motion between
the trough and the crest